Renton and Sick Boy follow suit. — What’s wrong?
— Cunt, ah cannae … ah cannae dae this any mair, Matty crouches, rubbing his gut. — Ah’m crampin up tae fuck!
— We huv tae, it’s aw we can dae, Spud goes, and picks up Matty’s end. It dawns on him how sick Matty must be; he’s used more and for longer than any of them.
Sick Boy, hoisting the plank onto his shoulder, glares at Matty. — Dinnae crap oot on us!
Matty turns and walks a few paces behind them, holding his stomach. He realises he’s left the bags, so he stumbles miserably back to retrieve them, then follows. He can’t stop scratching his skin, making big scabs, then ripping them off and tearing at the raw, infected flesh with his filthy fingernails. His eyes are red and weary.
They shuffle like constipated penguins towards the spot where the embankment runs close to the fence. They can see the outbuilding, which, to Sick Boy, seems bigger than before. Renton’s eyeballs ache; it takes him a while to focus, even though the floodlights shine into the desolate plant. No sign of life. It’s like a concentration camp, Renton reflects, and they look like Belsen survivors, trying to break in.
The huge silver, box-shaped building comes into view, the pipes spilling from it like spaghetti, the big, lustrous chimney and the other funnels shooting skywards. Then a faint sound, and some wisps of steam coming from one pipe against the dark backdrop. Bar a few isolated dark smudges of cloud, the glowing sky is cavernous and transparent, shimmering with galaxies new, this miracle coming so close to the dirty, crumbling tenements.
— Whoa, man … ye think thaire’s a night shift? Spud gasps.
— Naw, Matty says breathlessly, — it’ll be the machines, like robots, still processin it aw. They cannae shut doon the machinery and restart it every day. They’ll keep it gaun through the night.
Sick Boy does an impromptu Begbie impersonation: — Any fuckin robot radge gits fuckin wide they git fuckin chibbed, android or nae fuckin android.
They laugh through their sickness, bonded again, until Spud goes into a dry, hacking coughing fit, almost to the point of seizure. They are concerned about him, after his illness, but he abruptly settles down, his eyes watering, as he forces wispy gasps of air into his shallow lungs. — Aw, man … he says over and over again, shaking his head.
— You okay, pal? Renton asks.
— Aye … just gittin ma breath back … aw, man …
Renton looks to Sick Boy, who nods, and they position the plank halfway down the side of the steep embankment and let it fall forward towards the thick mesh wire of the barricade. The end of the stave hits the fence with a crash, provoking a stentorian rustle of chain metal, before coming to rest and nestling on top of the barbed wire. Fearful of detection, they scramble back up to the railway line, where they fall prone, looking from the trackside into the plant.
All is still.
After a few minutes Renton rises and slips down the bank towards the stave. He steps onto it, testing it with his weight, then walks precariously up the forty-five-degree angle towards the barbed wire, which sparkles with starlight, as the razored metal digging into the wood of the plank holds it in place. Cheeks puffed out, Renton ascends to the top of the fence, lit by the resonant white moon, which blasts out briefly from behind layered, murky clouds, then he scurries back down to the embankment. — It’s okay, he says to the others, who are now on their feet, marvelling at him like he’s a trapeze artist. — The secret is no tae look doon. Gie’s the end ay that other plank!
He takes one end and Matty takes the other. With the extra weight of the second body and plank to bear, the first one curves slightly. Renton gingerly makes his way to the top of the fence. He balances precariously in the boxer stance, one foot ahead of the other, as Matty starts to move up towards him, feeding the plank to him.
— Just lay it doon … Renton whispers, looking at the zombie faces of his friends, trying to fight off the notion that besets him: we’re not human any more. We’ve slipped out of our skins like lizards, shedding not just our pasts, but our futures. We’re shadows. His hands tremble as he looks down the second plank at Matty, and they carry it, balancing on the first one. For a moment it almost slips but Matty keeps a grip. Renton, with a balance and strength he’d never previously conceived of having, holds the end and keeps feeding it through. At the apex he lets the plank fall; his heart seems to fluff a couple of beats as he fears the timber’s end will miss the target of the outbuilding roof and fall hopelessly into no-man’s-land, aborting the mission, but it smacks onto the tarpaulin roof with a dull whack. The euphoria overcomes fear, and he stays rooted to his perch on top of the fence, waiting for alarms, guards and dogs.
But there’s nothing, and the boys are gathering round the base of the plank on the banking. He darts down the other plank, from fence-top onto roof, descending less sharply than the other; it’s like the planks form the hands on a clock stuck at twenty minutes to five. — C’mon, he whispers into the night.
Matty, despite his ailments, moves feline-slick, and joins him in seconds. They start to pass over the Sealink holdalls. It’s only now, when the plan seems to have at least some prospect of success, that Renton permits himself to think how stupid they’ve been, taking bags so distinguishable: Adidas or Head would have been better. Praying it won’t come to that, he feels the brittle, grainy felt of the roof crack under the thin soles of his worn trainers.
It’s Spud’s turn to cross into the plant; he starts slowly at first, one foot in front of the other in deliberation, then picks up speed on the incline. Getting to the top of the fence he looks wobbly, before he makes a swift descent down to the roof and into Renton’s arms.
Sick Boy follows, looking petulant and disgusted, as if traversing stocking-soled through a field of dog shit, but he negotiates the crossing, and squats on the roof panting nervously. They look below into the deathly still plant, illuminated by the night lights glowing dimly around them. Two metal boxes containing electronic eyes are visible, but face away from them, out towards the gates where workers will come and go. Renton thinks about the unseen men in a box somewhere, charged with looking at the grainy images on those screens. What would you ascertain after a few days but blurred black-and-white static?
— Some fucker tell that fat cunt tae wait there, Matty growls, looking at Keezbo who has got onto the first plank. — He’s no gaunny fuckin well make it! Cunt, he’ll brek that fuckin plank n trap us aw in here!
The gape at each other in panic.
— He’ll slow every fucker doon, Sick Boy agrees, turning to Renton, but Keezbo has already commenced his climb.
— C’mon, Keith, Renton whispers encouragingly. — Wigan’s chosen few!
Sick Boy slaps his head, looking to Matty, as the plank buckles under the weight of Keezbo’s ascent. But the drummer presses on, like an elephant on a tightrope wire. — When ye git tae the top, dinnae stoap, just run right doon the other side, Matty calls out, rigid with tension, hands balling and unclenching by his side.
— Spirit ay Wigan Casino, Keezbo! Renton continues to coax.
Keezbo reaches the apex. Watching his advance, they feel their hearts race towards their mouths as he teeters for a scary two seconds as he changes planks, then power-descends towards them, the plank thrashing on the fence, his mouth open, eyes glaring. — Toughest skiers, Keezbo Yule. Renton plants a smacker of a kiss on Keezbo’s sweaty forehead as he comes to rest on the creaking roof. Sick Boy grapples two large buttocks and pelvic thrusts into him in delight.